The Letter I Wish I Could Send: Dear Nana
Dear Nana,
It’s been a year since you left, and somehow, it still doesn’t feel real. Grief has become this quiet, lingering companion that shows up in unexpected moments. Sometimes in the middle of folding laundry, I’ll suddenly hear your laugh or while I am cooking dinner and reach for a wooden spoon like you used to, and my chest will tighten with the ache of missing you. I have found some peace staring up at blue skies, seeing roses or hearing blueberry hill come up on my Apple Music, knowing you soul is still around me daily but I don’t think I realized how much of you lived in the everyday until you were gone.
You were the heart of our family. The matriarch. The one who remembered every birthday, who stirred every pot of sauce with care, who called just to check in and really meant it. You didn’t just care about people. You carried them. Your love wasn’t loud or showy. It was quiet and steady. It lived in the details. The way you knew everyone’s favorite meal. The way you always made sure there was fresh cut watermelon ready for us on pool days. The way you taught us all how to cook. The way you made sure all of us felt seen and loved for exactly who we are.
As time has gone on I have quietly seen the ways you have taught me and how you taught me so much without ever turning it into a lesson. You showed me how to love people well through food, through presence, through gentleness. You showed me that being maternal wasn’t about being perfect. It was about showing up. It was about comfort, safety, and deep care. You never rushed my feelings. You let me sit in them. You listened to understand. That was your quiet superpower.
Some of my most treasured memories are in the kitchen with you. The way you'd pass down family recipes, telling stories as you went. I see now that those moments were a kind of inheritance. One I’m still holding close. They made me feel rooted, safe, and deeply loved. I miss them. I miss you.
We always talked about going to Italy together. You said it with a sparkle in your eye. Like it wasn’t just a trip, but something sacred. I carry so much guilt that we never made it happen. I wanted it so badly for both of us. But if I get the chance to go back, I’ll take you with me in every step. I’ll eat gelato in your honor and probably cry in some little cobblestone alley because it won’t be the same without you.
This past year has cracked me open. Finding myself in motherhood without you here has been one of the hardest things. Harder than I expected. I wish I could hear your voice telling me I’m doing a good job. But in so many ways, you’re still here and I see that when Claire sits up her the counter and we cook together. I see it in the way I talk to her about where she comes from and most importantly in the way I’m learning to slow down and just be.
Nana, thank you. Thank you for loving me and all of your grandkids the way you did. For seeing us. For giving us roots and wings. There’s a hole in our hearts that will never fully be filled. But there’s also this soft, steady warmth where your love still lives. And we will carry that with us. Always.
I love you forever. Until we meet again,
Alyssa
